


In No Uncertain Terms

by AuditoryCheesecake



Series: A Cheesecake's Tumblr Shorts [25]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Experiments in Tenses, Falling In Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 16:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9192629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: Does changing the words you use change the nature of the thing? Unfortunately, yes. Poor Dorian. Thethingwas hopeless enough before.





	

It’s a little predictable, perhaps, that changing the words seems to change the nature of the thing. The nature of the act, rather. The… thing, whatever it is, isn’t that different. It’s just Dorian’s own thoughts that have shifted.

The change is not wholly comfortable. Before this thought, they fucked. They screwed around, did, in Sera’s vaguely pointed terms, “the do.” They did not, never had, could not– Dorian, particularly, should not, and the Iron Bull, surely, would not– make love.

The idea had come to him, unbidden, like a thief in the night. Or the opposite. It had been a chill, sunny morning, and he’d shivered alone under his sheets, reluctant to get up and face the day. He’d wished for nothing more than a warm body beside his, hands on him, that one soft intelligent eye– he’d wanted Bull, for something far softer than their usual trysts.

The thought had been fleeting, barely waking, but the wish stayed with him all day. He and Bull were no strangers to each others’ bodies, explored through gentler touches than he’d once expected. They were friends, comrades, it hadn’t honestly occurred to him– no, there was a lie. It had occurred persistently, but he had quashed the thought every time. There was no future for them, not really. Even if they both lived through this, even if they and the world both survived an ancient magister trying his level best to destroy it, surely they would not be able to go on as they had been doing?

But suddenly Dorian’s able to admit that yes, he wishes that they could. This is everything he wanted, isn’t it? Stability, openness, kindness, exceptionally good sex. Yes, of course it is. That’s why it can’t possibly last.

That’s why he couldn't possibly allow himself to fall in love. He does so like to break rules, though doesn't he?

He does his best to make the most of it over the ensuing days. He indulges the fantasy, the bittersweet ache of pining, of wanting what is very nearly his.

Does the Iron Bull touch him gently after he suffers a brief interaction with a templar’s blade? Not more gently than ever before, but perhaps not so roughly as he might.

Does he smile widely when Dorian joins him at the fire as he sits watch? Not as widely as he does at the whiskey that Dorian produces, but more so than when he was sitting alone.

Does he mutter something in Qunlat when Dorian shoves him awake, something that could be an endearment? Certainly he pulls Dorian closer, kisses him with no regard for hair mussed by sleep, or muscles sore from fighting, or sour breath. Certainly he strokes Dorian’s face and says “good morning” like they’re the truest words he knows.

Dorian, of course, must kiss him back. Dorian must hold himself against Bull, must breathe him like air, must hold onto these moments while he has them. Surely, they will be gone soon, relegated to fond memory.

Dorian must not sigh so deeply when Bull lets him go, because then Bull might ask questions.

Bull must always behave in the most aggravating way possible, though, so he doesn’t ask anything. He looks at Dorian in the half-light of their thick tent, and Dorian shivers. Bare-chested in a cold Fereldan morning, what else can he do?

Bull’s eye tracks Dorian’s expression, flickering from his lips to his forehead, somehow not quite meeting his gaze straight on. Dorian reaches out, wants him closer again, where neither of them will feel quite so exposed. His hand brushes Bull’s cheek, and he feels the soft lines of scars he knows well. That he treasures, if he’s honest. He often isn’t.

Bull leans into the touch, reaches up as well, to cup Dorian’s hand in his own. He presses a kiss to the heel of his palm, to the tip of each finger, the inside of his wrist. Dorian can only watch, can’t possibly move, can’t even breathe.

He should say something, in this moment. Ask Bull to– not to stop, certainly. But ask, perhaps, “do you even know what you do to me, amatus?” It’s not what he meant to say. “Do you even know how–”

“I think I do.” Bull leans closer, lifts Dorian’s hand to his lips again. Dorian wants to close his eyes, look away from that smile. He can’t, or perhaps he chooses not to. It’s the same, in the end, because Bull kisses him again.


End file.
